The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  “Tell the state and local police to start checkin’ roadside parks and rest areas, anyplace off the road and secluded from the main traffic,” Morris said. “We need to find Barnes’ body.”

  “You’re sure he’s already dead?” Fontenot asked Morris. She looked at Keller who nodded her head.

  “Dead as last week’s corn beef,” Morris said.

  He had the technician the run the footage again.

  “No license plates,” Morris said when the footage ended. “Eight damn cameras and none of ‘em recorded a damn license plate.”

  Benjamin asked the technician if he could try something. The tech stood and offered his seat to the rookie agent. Using the mouse, Benjamin reset the digital footage back to the beginning and clicked on the entrance camera, transferring the picture to the main screen in front of him.

  “What’cha got in mind, Professor?” Morris asked. “You get some kind’a ancestral tickle? Maybe an old witchdoctor cousin speakin’ to you from out’ta Africa?”

  The Ogden agents didn’t understand the racially charged antagonism between Benjamin and Morris.

  “Just a hunch.”

  “A hunch? Last time this kid got a hunch he called his daddy.”

  “Behave Dunc,” Keller said.

  The motorhome entering the rest stop appeared on the monitor. When the front of the RV filled the screen, Benjamin paused the image. Using the mouse, he shifted the picture to where only the driver was visible.

  “We’ve already got a picture of him,” Morris said.

  “I know, but that’s not what I’m looking for.”

  Benjamin locked the mouse onto the picture and moved the image on the screen up and to the left until a blue sticker shaped like a shield appeared on the lower left side of the windshield. Then using the zoom-in feature on the screen, he enlarged the image of the sticker.

  “Bingo!” Benjamin exclaimed.

  “What?” Keller asked. “What is it?”

  “That, LK, is the shield of faith.”

  “The what?” Morris asked. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “You’ve never heard of the shield of faith, Special Agent Morris?” Benjamin asked. “An educated white man like you? You really are a heathen, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have one damn clue what you’re talkin’ about,” Morris said.

  “George,” Keller said, “what are you talking about?”

  George reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed the new testament he always carried with him.

  “Dear God in heaven, here we go again!” Morris said.

  Benjamin ignored Morris’ sarcasm. Instead, he opened the thin book and thumbed through the pages until he found the passage he wanted.

  “Here it is,” he said. “Ephesians, Chapter 6.”

  Morris and Keller watched over Benjamin’s shoulder. The Ogden agents stood back, watched, and listened, amazed that a federal agent would actually use a Bible to work a murder case.

  “See here?” Benjamin asked.

  “What, for the love of Pete?” Morris said.

  “Verses 11 through 16,” Benjamin said. “Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

  “Are you gonna to get somewhere with this, Reverend? Or are you gonna take up an offerin’?”

  “Shut up, Dunc,” Keller said. “Just be quiet and listen. Go ahead, George.”

  “Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; And your feet shod with the preparation of peace: Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.”

  Morris and Keller exchanged skeptical glances. Cooper just shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t get it.”

  “This sticker is a shield of faith,” Benjamin said. “I knew I recognized it when I saw it.”

  Keller laid her hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. “George, you’re not making any sense.”

  “Don’t you see, LK? It’s a university parking permit.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I thought I saw it when the RV drove by the first time but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Can you tell which school it’s from?”

  Benjamin enlarged the image of the shield-shaped sticker again until it filled the screen. It was blue with the number 5169 embossed on a silver horizontal strip across the middle and the letters ORU stamped at the top.

  “I should be able to,” he answered. “I had one just like it, and my dad has two of them right now. It’s a student and faculty parking permit for Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

  “My God!” Morris exclaimed. “So we can track the son of a bitch through that damn sticker?”

  Benjamin stood up, leaving the shield of faith displayed on the screen.

  “Well sir,” he said to Morris, standing directly in front of the senior agent, “we can if you don’t mind me using some of my African ingenuity to make a phone call.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Tulsa City Police swat team, along with agents from the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation and the FBI surrounded the large brick house on South Peoria in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The sun was just rising into an overcast sky and a gentle breeze stirred the bushes around the house. The interior was dark except for one light that shone through a small diamond pane window in what the officers assumed was the kitchen.

  Using the registry number from the ORU shield of faith parking permit, the owner of the RV had been traced back to this house. A precursory search of the property revealed an RV barn on the backside of the property with a motorhome inside. The leader of the Tulsa team, Lieutenant Charles Avey, assumed it was the same RV for which the FBI were searching. He reasoned that the interstate serial killer would have had time to drive from Utah to Oklahoma.

  Guess the bastard feels safe tucked away here in his million dollar house.

  The parking permit turned out to be registered to Dr. Robert Marks, pastor of a large evangelistic church in Tulsa, and also an interim professor at Oral Roberts University. How a man with his apparent education and good standing in the community could be a serial killer baffled Avey, but he assumed it was true. Regardless if he was the man pursued by the FBI or not, they were there to arrest Robert Marks.

  After a few minutes, one of the garage doors began to open. A new black Cadillac Escalade backed out and swerved into a turnaround spot on the side of the driveway. The driver, unaware he was being watched, sipped from a cup of coffee. Lieutenant Avey watched the man behind the wheel of the Escalade. It didn’t look like he had a care in the world.

  Just another day in the life of a maniac.

  The garage door closed behind the Cadillac and it started moving toward the iron gates separating the home from the city street. Nothing appeared out of place. Marks pressed the open button on a remote control and an iron security gate rolled to one side on an in-ground rail system. It would close automatically once his vehicle cleared the sensor zone.

  Just as the Escalade was about to drive through the gate, two Tulsa police cars sped up the driveway and blocked the exit and the sensor zone. Flashing lights from a half dozen other cars lit up the night in strobes of blue and red. Robert Marks slammed on his brakes, spilling his hot coffee onto his pants legs, searing his skin.

  Two armed Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation agents and four Tulsa swat team members appeared on both sides of the SUV, their weapons drawn and ready. Marks had no idea what was going on.

  The mayor’s playing games with me again.

  “Get out of the vehicle!” one of the swat team members yelled at Marks. “Keep your hands where we can see them!�
�

  Maybe not.

  Marks opened the driver’s side door and stepped onto his driveway. “Get down on your knees and place your hands behind your head!”

  Without saying anything, Marks lowered himself to his knees and placed his hands behind his head. One of the swat team members grabbed Marks by his right wrist and forced his arm around behind his back. He pushed Marks forward onto his stomach while at the same time twisting his left arm behind him, not allowing any cushion when he fell forward. Marks plunged face first onto the hard driveway. He felt a tooth chip when his head hit the ground.

  Other lights came on inside the house and the front door opened. A dark-haired woman appeared in her nightgown and slippers.

  “Robert!” she yelled when she saw her husband on the ground. She ran from the house only to be grabbed by a Tulsa police officer who had been hiding in a stand of bushes.

  “Dear Jesus!” the woman screamed. “What’s going on here?”

  Two Tulsa city police officers took Robert Marks by his arms and lifted him to his feet. His mouth hurt where he’d slammed against the ground. He looked at Charles Avey who still had not spoken to him.

  “Robert Marks?” Avey asked. Marks nodded, still feeling his teeth with his tongue. “Reverend Robert Marks?”

  “I hope you’ve got a good reason for this,” Marks said. He could feel a bruise forming under his right eye and blood seeping from his cheekbone. His back hurt where the officer had forced his knee into it while holding him down to handcuff him.

  “The best damn reason in the word, Reverend,” Avey answered. “You are under arrest for the August 13th, 2011 murder of Mr. Philip Carroll in Hot Springs, Arkansas.”

  Chapter Forty

  Keller and Morris were just sitting down to breakfast at the Holiday Inn in Ogden when George Benjamin waved to them from across the room. He made his way past the buffet breakfast line and headed directly toward them.

  “They made an arrest in Tulsa.”

  “The preacher?” Keller asked.

  “Uh-huh. Got him leaving his home this morning.”

  “Is it him?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “They didn’t say what his name is?”

  “No, just that they got him.”

  Morris didn’t like this one bit. He’d been on the trail of this maniac for damn near a year, and now a bunch of Oklahoma goat ropers make his collar?

  The least these yokels could do is send a picture of the man they arrested, if for no other reason than to make sure they got the right man.

  “We have a live video feed set up on the laptop,” Benjamin said. “We should be able to speak directly to him.”

  Morris pushed his plate of ham and eggs to the center of the table and stood up. He hadn’t gone through the buffet line, but instead had ordered from the menu, expecting to have at least one decent meal that didn’t include paper plates.

  “Can’t get a night’s sleep without this kid wakin’ me up, and now I can’t eat my damn breakfast.” Morris leered at Benjamin. “You wanna go home with me and screw my wife too, rook?”

  “Duncan!” Keller said.

  “Well hell, Keller…”

  “You know damn well you ran your wife off,” Keller snapped.

  “Smart ass,” Morris said. “It’s bad enough this damn rookie has all the answers and took over my case, now you start in on me too.”

  “I’ll do more than start on you, and you damn well know it,” Keller countered. “We’re lucky to have George on our team.” Morris liked this shave-tail rookie but he wasn’t about to let him know it.

  The three agents left the hotel restaurant. Keller stopped at the front cashier and paid for both of their meals. She knew Morris had no intention of paying—not even for his own.

  Back at Keller’s room, Grundy Cooper had just finished connecting the live computer conference link with the Tulsa police department where Robert Marks had been taken into custody. Benjamin turned up the audio on the laptop so they could all hear the conversation.

  Lt. Charles Avey’s face appeared on the laptop screen. Other agents and police officers milled around in the background, but it was clear that Avey was going to do the talking.

  “Is this damn thing on?” Morris asked Cooper. He sat down in a chair in front of the computer.

  Cooper nodded.

  “Then what the hell do I do to make it work?”

  “Just speak to it, sir,” Cooper said. “And look into this little camera.” He pointed to a small camera mounted on top of the screen.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Morris scooted his chair closer to the table and looked into the camera lens. “Can you hear me, Lieutenant? This is Special Agent Duncan Morris with the FBI.”

  Avey also turned up the volume on his computer. “I hear ya, Agent Morris.”

  For some reason Morris didn’t like the way Avey said ‘Agent Morris’. It sounded a little too arrogant for his taste. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why he didn’t like this man, he just didn’t like him.

  “I understand you arrested a man in reference to the information submitted by the FBI this mornin’.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Has he agreed to be interviewed, or is he holding out for his lawyer?”

  Avey looked around the room.

  “He hasn’t agreed or disagreed to anything. He’s being held in a holding cell pending assignment of jurisdiction.”

  “Jurisdiction,” Morris said to Keller. “We’ve got a damn serial killer in custody and all these eggheads can talk about is jurisdiction.”

  “So you’ve not spoken to him?” Morris asked Avey.

  “I was told only to arrest him,” Avey said. “The warrant said the FBI would interrogate him.”

  “Ask Lieutenant Avey to describe him,” Benjamin said from behind Morris.

  “Lieutenant Avey…”

  “I heard him,” Avey interrupted Morris. “Hang on a sec. I’ll put up a picture.”

  A few seconds later a picture of Robert Marks filled the screen. It wasn’t anything at all like the agent had expected. Morris watched the expression on Benjamin’s face change from expectation to disbelief.

  “You still there, Avey?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “This is a picture of the man you arrested?” Morris asked. “The owner of the RV we sent you information about?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Jumpin’ Joe at the rodeo,” Morris muttered.

  “Well, lieutenant, from the looks of this picture, this man is in his middle fifties. Is that correct?” Benjamin asked from behind Morris.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m guessing he’s six foot three, six foot four inches tall; two hundred pounds. Is that correct?”

  “That’s about right,” Avey answered. “Why?”

  “Can you describe his hands for me?”

  “His hands?”

  “Yes sir, his hands. What do they look like? Describe them for me.”

  “His hands are his hands. Eight fingers, two thumbs. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Morris, Keller, and Benjamin all groaned at the same time.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Avey asked.

  “Nothing much, lieutenant,” Benjamin said. “It’s just that I know Dr. Robert Marks, and you arrested the wrong man. That’s all.”

  * * *

  Dr. Robert Marks sat in a holding cell in the Tulsa City Jail. He didn’t know why he was there except that the police had accused him of killing someone in Hot Springs, Arkansas. It had been several months since he’d been to Arkansas, and then only to Little Rock where he’d flown in for a minister’s conference, stayed for three days, then flew right back to Tulsa. Nonetheless, here he sat accused of a crime he knew he did not commit, shackled hand and foot.

  Guess this is how Paul and Silas felt at Ephesus.

  Marks heard the voices of at least three men
as they approached his holding cell. They were arguing with each other about how one of them had screwed up, while another voice defended himself saying he had followed procedures and served the warrant perfectly, and there was no cause to sling false accusations his way.

  “False accusations?” one of the men asked. “We’ll be damn lucky if he doesn’t sue both the city and the state and charge all of you incompetent sons of bitches with false imprisonment.”

  “Now see here, sir,” the defensive voice said. “There’s no call to…”

  “Do you know the mayor called me at home and asked me what the hell was going on?” the voice said. “You arrested one of the most influential pastors in this town. He’s got over fifteen-thousand members that’s he’s going to be telling this story to on Sunday. He’s a chaplain with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol and the mayor is a member of his damn church!”

  Robert Marks looked up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of a narrow cot in the holding cell. He recognized one of the men as Lieutenant Avey, the policeman who had arrested him in his driveway. Another of the men was the Tulsa District Attorney. He was apparently the man who had been speaking harshly to Avey. Marks didn’t recognize the third man but assumed he had something to do with saving face for the city.

  A politician.

  The three men entered the cell but none of them spoke.

  “Well, I haven’t been sexually molested yet,” Marks said. “Does it take all three of you to do it?”

  “Doctor Marks,” Lt. Avey said, “I don’t know what to say. There’s been a terrible mistake.”

  “A mistake? You sure, Lieutenant? You sure I’m not a mad killer?”

  Lt. Avey closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.

  Twenty friggin’ years down the drain.

  “Yes sir, I’m sorry sir,” he began. “It was all an incredible misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” Marks asked. “Lieutenant, a misunderstanding is when you tell someone to turn left when they should turn right, or when you buy red roses for your wife when you know she likes white ones.”

  “Yes sir, I…”

  “A misunderstanding is when the waiter brings you chicken when you order steak, or when the clerk at Starbucks fixes you a mocha when you wanted a latte,” Marks continued. “That’s a misunderstanding.”